


The Fighter

by cumbercollected



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbercollected/pseuds/cumbercollected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slaves are a nice addition to a household, although they are not only used in domestic situations. Fight Ball is where sport and violence come together, with slaves assembled to play a classic sport where the crowd cares about the points as much as the bloodshed. John Watson has been out of the Fight game for a while, rotting away at the hands of a second-rate slavery company. When a strange man decides that there is something more to John than his scars, he is given a new lease on life. Sherlock decides to train John to get back into shape so that the slave can prove himself in the arena.  But will it bring him right back to where he started?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided that, instead of a simple fight to the death, an actual sport would be more interesting. Also, I'm not an expert at Brit-pick, but I tried my best. If you have any corrections please let me know. Enjoy!

He could hear the crowd from his holding cell, located back stage. The arena was absolutely sold out, shoulder-to-shoulder. The wagers had already been placed, and men and women were drunk not only on the beer, but on the pending violence that their money was riding on.

He had been doing this a while and every crowd was the same. Rowdy, loud, and predictable. There was a roar, which meant that the lights in the stands had dimmed. It was almost time.

His holding cell opened, and he was led onto a metal platform with his back facing the centre. John was wearing a pair of black shorts and a black shirt, with black socks and black sneakers--his uniform. Four more slaves wearing black came to stand with him in line. Silently, John exchanged a look with a female Fighter standing beside him, and then he could hear the opposing five team members walking. John glanced backwards at them. They were all wearing white, and, after a glance, they stood in line with them, their backs facing the black team. Five Fighters per team. On the smaller side. A local match.

Without a word, the platform began to rise, bringing them from the underground backstage level to the arena. John looked at the crowd, a faceless mass that wanted to watch them play. He made a face, wincing at the bright lights that shined on the arena and made everything feel so hot.

The metal platform locked itself in place among the dirt floor. The arena had been turned into a miniature, enclosed desert-like space with sand and rocks to hide behind.  There wasn’t a lot of room to run around, and only a few places to hide. The entire field was free to roam in search of one of two leather-clad balls that were hidden somewhere in this wasteland of a field. Of course the ground was covered in dirt--grass would be too soft to fall on. At the end of the oval-shaped arena, on either rounded side, was a colored area--one white and one black. That was the scoring area, and the more points that were scored, the better for the slave. No master would take the time and money to properly house a loster. John's knees were bent in anticipation, ready to run.

He looked for the best place to head toward. There was definitely a weapon hidden behind a small cliff—that was an obvious hiding spot for one. Which meant it was probably not very good. Pepper spray would help, but it wouldn’t be the key to his survival tonight. Of course, a simple sport wasn't enough--there needed to be violence, instigated and encouraged. The weapons were constantly cycled, brought up on platforms the same way the slaves were. These platforms were covered with the ground terrain, which didn't give their position away by being metal like the one that the slaves were brought up on. 

A buzzer sounded, signalling the start of the crowd’s evening entertainment. John sprinted toward a rock cluster in the back of the arena, knowing the only way he’d win was a decent weapon. It seemed one of the other Fighters on the opposing side had the same idea, as he felt something grab the back of his leg and pull him to the ground. John hit the dirt hard, but kicked out, hitting the other in the face with the bottom of his shoe. Scrambling to his feet, he headed into a small cluster of rocks, using it as cover.

He hated the crowd. John couldn’t tell why they were cheering, why they got louder. Was someone advancing on him? Or was their attention elsewhere? It was distracting, and he didn’t need to be worried about them. He needed to worry about this game. 

He leaned against a rock, breathing heavy. He wasn’t sure where the Fighter he’d kicked had gone. He turned his head around the corner and didn’t see any movement. He made a break for it, rushing toward another point of cover. A sharp around of air rushing told him he had moved too soon. It sounded like some sort of pellet gun. Someone already had a weapon. He was at a disadvantage.

He turned, and got hit in the back. The pellets stung, but they didn’t stop him from moving. The crowd was just getting warmed up. The lethal weapons wouldn’t be sent out until later in the game.

A buzzer sounded, and he looked up at the scoreboard. The scoreboard had the team names, White and Black, with their digital numeric score count underneath. Underneath each team score, there were five red 'x's, each corresponding to one of the players on that team. The white team already had scored a point. Only two more and they would win. That ball would have been put out of play, and a new one would have popped up somewhere.

As he ran, something shiny caught his eye. Metal. He ducked down, reaching under a crevice in the rock. Brass knuckles. Those would come in handy.

He slipped them on, flexing his fingers to get a feel for the additional weight as crouching on the ground. Then the volume in the stadium got loud—really loud. And he knew it wasn’t just because he had found brass knuckles. No, he knew that sound all too well. It was a sick sort of energy. Looking up at the scoreboard, one of the red 'x's under the black team was no longer illuminated. The first slave was down. Dead.

It wasn't a rare thing for slaves to die during Fight Ball. The weapons given to the slaves were intended to be used. John didn't want to kill anyone over this stupid game, but he knew that if he didn't, someone would do him in instead. He didn't need to fight to win this game. He needed to fight for his life. The arena was a war zone.

John knew he needed a game plan. He couldn’t just hide out. He needed to do something, otherwise he was going to be a sitting duck. 

He needed to get one of the balls. 

He saw a flash of movement, and he knew he needed to get the jump on whichever Fighter that was before he was the one getting surprised. Deciding on the advantage of height, he began climbing one of the rock formations, crouching to stay hidden while he got a better view.

This was a smaller stadium—a local match, just within a city. Had this been on the national conference, he would have been completely out of his element. But this...John could deal with this one match.

The white-clad Fighter that John had been hunting was facing the other way with her back toward the rocks. Taking the advantage, he jumped, tackling the female Fighter to the ground. Some of those in the audience booed and cursed him, but sex didn’t matter—if he didn’t attack her, she surely would attack him.

She had been the one with the pellet gun, and tried to shoot him as she struggled under his weight. But he punched her, hard, across the face, his brass knuckle drawing blood. Again he punched her, and again, bloodying her face. She squirmed, kneeing his groin. The pain made him see stars, but he blindly kept aiming his fists, knowing he couldn’t give her a moment to gain the advantage.

He grabbed the pellet rifle from her grasp after little struggle, rolling backward off of her. With quick aim at her throat, he fired. The woman grabbed at her throat and dropped to her knees, struggling for breath.

“I’m sorry,” John said hoarsely, his expression pained as he watched the female Fighter. Suddenly, there was a loud bang, and she fell onto her side in a slump. Her hair soaked in a pool of her own blood.

Another white Fighter. With a loaded gun.

John darted for cover, his heart pounding in his ears. A gun. _God,_ he was so fucked. He had to keep it together. Run. Dodge. He needed to stay low and figure out some sort of plan.

Another shot fired, and it hit above his head. The other slave didn’t have very good training, couldn’t aim. That would help him.

John ran, sweat dripping down the side of his face. He shot the pellet rifle in the direction of the other Fighter. John’s eyes scanned the arena, panicked, searching for any sign of movement.

And that was when he spotted it--the ball. It was tucked away, the brown leather blending it in with the rocks.

Another shot. This time, John wasn’t so lucky. A sharp pain rocked through his body. Looking down at his shoulder, all he saw was read. John cursed loudly, clutching his wound as he felt his own warm blood soak into his clothing, getting it wet and sticky. The pain was hard to get through—it was hard to think, hard to see. He wanted to lie down and just take a moment to collect himself, but he knew that would mean his demise. So John ran for the ball, although he wasn’t sure what good that would do. He was leaving a blood trail for the other Fighter to follow. He couldn’t flee, he needed to be on the assault.

Another buzzer. John glanced up. Someone on his team had scored. The crowd was going nuts. 

He needed confidence, just as much as the opposing Fighter needed to be over-confident. John pressed his back against a rock and tried not to breathe so hard or so loudly—although it wasn’t likely his enemy would be able to hear him over the audience. The ball was in his line of sight, just feet away from him. 

John saw, out of the corner of his eye, the barrel of the gun. The Fighter was following his bloody breadcrumb trail, assuming that John was on the run. As the Fighter with the gun came forward, John lunged at him, swiping his leg out at the ground to knock the man off his feet. John grabbed for the gun, but the other Fighter knew better than that. Improvising, John took the pellet rifle and shot at the other Fighter’s eye, immediately blinding him. Perhaps the pellet rifle had been under-utilized.

In a panic, the blinded Fighter aimed the gun with a shaking hand. John’s hand came to grasp the weapon, the two Fighters struggling for control of the firearm. Imrpovising, John grabbed the pellet gun and, at such close range, shot the man’s shoulder, then his forearm. The other Fighter’s grasp on the pistol slipped.

There was no pride in this, but it was the only way out. It was the only way John could survive.

He looked down at the blinded Fighter, the gun aimed at his head. “Sorry, mate.” John fired, looking away as he did it. It was then that he cast the gun aside, sinking onto his knees and holding his shoulder. He lived to Fight another day.

Running for the ball, John tucked it under his arm which hand donned the brass knuckles, his other free hand holding the loaded pistol. He ran in a zig-zag motion, in and out of rocks as he made for the white team's goal area. 

The buzzer went off once more. The white team had scored again. They were leading, two to one. The black team had one deceased member, the white team had two. Heart pounding in his ear, John dove for the cover of a smaller, longer rock. He could see the white team's goal area. He just needed to get there...and he wasn't going to do it by sitting there in protection and looking at it.

So John ran, eyes wide with adrenaline. He looked all around, kicking up dirt under his sneakers. They were cheap, a bit worn--he wasn't one of the national players, in a league. Recognizable with a rich owner. No, this was just a local match, with local conditions. 

Out of nowhere, a white-wearing Fighter tackled John. He had no weapon, but had the element of surprise. John held onto the ball tight, but it was knocked from his grasp as it hit the ground, rolling forward. John met the other Fighter's eyes, and they both ran for it, John holding the gun up and aiming it at the other. "Don't," he said, breathless and pleading. "I don't want to kill you!" 

There was a small humming sound, and the John screamed out in a hot, searing pain, dropping to his knees. His body tensed and trembled, his face becoming so flushed. He shook as electricity coursed through his body. It stopped and left John aching and panting.

The buzzer sounded. The black team had scored. John looked over to the side, seeing one of his black-wearing team mates in the goal area he himself was so close to. The ball that had been placed down on the ground disappeared through the floor. John's head turned, and he looked at the ball that the white defender had knocked from his grasp.

He needed to win this.

Taking the gun, John shot the other in the leg, simply injuring him. He got to his feet with some difficulty, holding his shoulder. At a slow, troubled jog, John picked up the ball and dove into the goal area. 

The buzzer sounded, and the game was over. John lie on his side, sweaty and exhausted and so glad that the game was over. The ball he had gotten into the goal area dropped through the floor as well, someone having opened a hatch. He just laid there the entire time the white team suriviors were rounded up and were gathered on the metal platform on which both teams had come up. They were cursed at and booed, degraded for their loss as the platform lowered itself backstage. 

John watched one of his teammates come to his side, offering him a hand. John took it silently, struggling to his feet. He and his teammate walked over to the platform, meeting the other two surviving members. Standing on the platform, John and the rest of the black team were hailed the victors. The crowd went wild, although there were some boos from unhappy viewers who had lost their wager. John didn’t feel like a winner, nor did he look like one.  He was hunched over, clutching his wound that still hadn’t completely stopped bleeding.The rest of his team didn't look much better. As the platform lowered and then locked into place back stage, the slaves walked off and headed toward their awaiting owners. 

John's owner was a lean, well-groomed male. Some of the other slave's masters greeted their slaves with words of congratulations and praise. John's owner greeted him with a slap to the face. "What the fuck was that?!" the man snapped. His tone became mocking. "'I don't want to kill you!'? Are you _fucking_ kidding me? I didn't train you to be compassionate. I trained you to win. And I told you not to get yourself _fucking_ injured!”

John couldn’t believe his owner’s attitude. He’d almost been killed out there! “It’s better than dead!” he snapped insolently, which only earned him another slap. This one was harder. It stung more.

“You’re a bigger problem to me injured than you are dead!” Digging into his pocket, his owner pulled out a remote. His remote. “ If you’re dead I don’t have to  _waste_ money feeding you when you can’t fight and  _make_ me money.”  Before John could protest, a dial was set and a button was pressed.

He fell to his knees, his entire body convulsing from the electrical shock that was delivered to him by a microchip that had been planted into his spine. He closed his eyes, and then found he had trouble opening them. Perhaps a little rest wouldn’t kill him...

He could still hear his owner through the fog. “Get this trash out of here.” There was a kick to his side, and he grunted, wishing that the bliss of unconsciousness would simply take him. It didn’t take long, but when he opened his eyes he was somewhere new. And he realised he would never see his owner again.

 

* * *

 

_Five years later._

Sometimes auctions were held in this warehouse. People would bid on antique furniture. Sometimes, because of the scenic location on the river, it was rented out for a party of some sort—sweet sixteens and Bar Mitzvahs. A transformation would need to be made for such a celebration, however: the warehouse was damp and dark and cold, with concrete floors and a haunting echo effect.

Today, though, there wasn’t an auction, and it wasn’t a party. It was a showcase.

Rows and rows of cages were set up, the property inside as restless as they always were. The cages weren’t barred or made of metal: instead, they were almost like stalls, tall and narrow with no room for the slaves inside to even lie down. They could sit or they could stand, the choice was theirs.

Three of the four cage walls were completely clear, giving the potential purchasers room to view the merchandise as they pleased. The back wall was a door, which was currently locked. The stalls were on wheels, positioned a foot off the floor with the break in place so the slaves couldn’t inch about the warehouse by thrusting their weight around.

John didn’t have the energy to do such trivial things. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, being moved from one warehouse to the other, one truck to another. Once, when he was younger, he’d roll around the best he could just to piss off the guards. But he was older now, and watching the young slaves get purchased, one after one, just made him deflate even more. He hadn’t had a proper owner in years, and while he detested them, he hated the guards even more. Being on a permanent road show was no life for anyone, and it was beginning to wear on him.

He was completely nude, as all the merchandise was. At the back of the neck was a small scar, brownish and aged, from the microchip that had been planted in each and every one of them at their spine. The remote to this microchip was in a compartment built into the door to his cage, which had a dial and button to deliver electrical punishments as well as a GPS tracking device. Also in the compartment was John’s entire enslavement record. His whole history. Every owner he’d ever had.  

The stares were another thing he had become accustomed to. People scrutinizing him, looking him up and down, talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. It was boring, and while buyers went up and down the rows of cages, John leaned his head in the back corner and reclined as best as he could, shutting his eyes and trying to get some rest.

Just because his eyes were closed, though, didn’t mean those browsing were any less perceptive. After a few moments, a man came up to stare at John through the Plexiglas, eying him up and down. “Pretty cheap,” he shrugged, looking at the price tag written in dry-erase marker on the clear front wall.

The dark-haired male that had come with him said nothing. He walked around toward the back, looking at John a bit more carefully. That was when he noticed the scars.

“This one’s defective.”

The tall, pale dark-haired companion came to stand by his friend. “Defective? We’re in the miscellaneous aisle. They’re all  _defective.”_   

“Oh, and suddenly you’re an expert? You haven’t owned a slave in your life.”

“And Mycroft won’t let me forget it,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m tempted to buy one to get him off my arse.”

 Lestrade watched as the man walked up closer to the cage, hands behind his back. He was looking at John as if the slave were a priceless jewel in a museum. Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Not again, Sherlock.”

But it was too late. “Late thirties. Born into slavery. Long history with various skill sets, initially raised as a Fighter until a nasty row nearly crippled him. Has partial training as domestic sex slave, but judging from the age of some of the newer scars that life didn’t suit him. Which is why he’s down here, with the misfits.”  

“On my salary those are the only ones I can afford,” Lestrade scoffed, walking away, clearly uninterested in purchasing a damaged slave. But Sherlock didn’t move. He stayed his close distance as Lestrade looked at some other merchandise.

John opened his eyes slowly, but jumped at seeing the man so close. Sherlock smirked at startling the male, and kept his eyes focused on him.

This was always the awkward part that John wasn’t very good at. When someone was interested—someone was looking at him, up close, what did he do? Did he say anything? Usually he got punished for speaking out of turn. But he couldn’t just sit there. What if he lost his chance?

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He cleared his throat, which made Sherlock’s eyes move to John’s face in mild curiosity. John nodded at the man, curtly and politely. “Evening.”  

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with curiosity. He seemed amused. “Evening,” he said in response. “You don’t look very comfortable.”

John wasn’t sure why he was surprised that the male outside his cell was speaking with him. Usually they just looked and left. “I’m not.”

“Oi, Sherlock!” Lestrade called. “What are you doing over there?”

Sherlock didn’t look away from John, and the two simply stared at one another for a moment. It made John feel...well, naked. It hadn’t bothered him since his early days of slavery. Why was he suddenly feeling modest?

“Lestrade, grab one of the clerks, would you?” Sherlock asked.

“You can’t be serious,” Lestrade frowned as he came over, trying to talk his friend out of his purchase. “That one? He’s  _damaged_. Have you seen that scar on his shoulder?” 

“Get the clerk.”

John watched the other male fetch one of the men working the warehouse floor. He sat up a bit more, looking much more alert. He watched Sherlock as the man gave him a wink and then walked away.

Just like that? He was bought, that easily? After the years of simply sitting there, watching all the young, pretty and strong slaves go, it was his turn once more? For a moment, John thought he was dreaming. But the back of his cage opened, and John was allowed out, waking him from any doubts he had had.

The clerk was an older, tired-looking man. He shut the door to the stall and reached into the compartment at the back. John’s eyes watched as the man grabbed his file and his remote. John stared at the contraption with contempt and pure and utter loathing. Such a small, simple device could cause so much pain.

John limped across the floor toward Processing, which was at the back corner of the warehouse. Apparently his limp was at too slow a pace, as John was shoved by the store worker, and the slave nearly stumbled to the ground. He turned around to glare at the man, but remained silent as he was put through Processing. He was given what the workers called a shower, but what was really a spray with a cold water hose. He dried himself off with a towel, and was allowed a pair of one-size-fits-all cotton trousers He tied the drawstring, feeling his heart flutter in way he wasn’t used to.

John hadn’t been anticipating being bought tonight—or any night, really. He thought his career was over. He was an older slave, stuck in his older ways of doing things. Masters wanted young, fresh minds to mould to their liking. Not...well, old dogs like him.

As John had been preparing for his departure, his paperwork had been sent to one of the small cubicles that had been set up in the warehouse for contract signing. Sherlock’s signature sealed the deal—he was officially a part of John’s history. And John belonged to him.

“Do you not know what defective  _means?”_  Lestrade grumbled. “Yeah, sure, he’s cheap. But he’s not going to be good for anything. Buying a damaged slave won’t get your brother off your case.”

“Psychosomatic,” was all Sherlock said, giving one of the workers the paperwork to copy for his own personal records. He stood beside Lestrade, pushing in his chair. The pale, dark haired male put his hands behind his back as he awaited his copy of the contract and his newly purchased merchandise.

“Excuse me?”

“His limp,” Sherlock clarified. “It’s psychosomatic. He’s simply scarred, which does not equate to being  _defective.”_

“What do you even plan on doing with him?” Lestrade asked.

Footsteps could be heard down the corridor. John turned wearing a pair of thin cotton trousers, the exhausted man holding his remote and a holder, walking behind him.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Fight him.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

John scratched the back of his neck where the old scar was as he was escorted down the cement corridor. His new owner and whoever the gentleman with the greying hair was were standing side-by-side, waiting for him.

 The anticipation was killing him. He had no idea what this man was like. If he was abusive, if he’d give him things like decent portion-sized meals and a bed.

“Heel,” said the tired clerk, and John did just that, stopping a few feet before Sherlock and Lestrade. The man handed the other a manila envelope with John’s information. “He’s well-trained, as you can see. Everything you need to know ‘bout ‘im is in there, which you’ve already read o’er,” the man assured. He handed Sherlock the remote, who took it without a moment’s hesitation.

He inspected the device, playing with the dial that controlled the setting and intensity of the electric shocks John would receive should his behaviour warrant punishment. Sherlock’s hands exploring the remote made John tense. One slip of his finger, just a little pressure of his thumb, and that device would send John to the floor in a convulsing mess of a man.

“Well behaved,” Lestrade muttered, making John look at the man curiously. Sherlock arched a brow, not quite understanding.

“It’s nice not having to tug them around by a leash is all I’m saying.” Collars and leashes, while unnecessary given the microchip, were often used for symbolic purposes…as well as functional, depending on how likely the slave was to run off. Lestrade put his hands in his pockets. “Can we leave, eh? This place gets a bit depressing after a while.”

“Tell me about it,” John mumbled without thinking. As the eyes of the three men shot to him, he felt some color come to his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Thought you said he was trained,” Lestrade said to the tired clerk.

“He is,” Sherlock assured. “Simply out of practice.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He thanked whatever god that was listening the pale man had been the one to purchase him. John stood up a bit straighter, as if to thank Sherlock for his understanding by trying a more proper pose in order to demonstrate his competence and capability.  Sherlock gave him a grin. “Are you ready to get out of here…” he drew out his words, opening the folder and quickly checking the name. “…John?”

John nodded his head, and Sherlock began walking. Lestrade followed suit, and John broke out into a limp, trying to keep up with their pace.

It wasn’t easy.

“Excuse me, Master, sir—”

“Just ‘Master,’ John,” Sherlock interjected. He didn’t break his stride, their footsteps echoing in the warehouse as they headed for the nearest exit. “The term ‘sir’ is to be used for anyone above your status, including superior slaves. You can call my colleague Mr. Lestrade.”

“Right. Sorry. Master.” John scolded himself inwardly for making such a mistake. “I know it’s rather taboo for a slave to ask for something, especially since you literally just signed my papers—”

“The answer is no,” Sherlock interrupted once again, opening the door. Lestrade exited first, but Sherlock stood there holding it open as John paused in the open doorway. The fresh air already felt amazing. He could actually taste it.

“Sorry?” John frowned. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.”

Sherlock didn’t skip a beat. “You want a cane. But the answer is no.”

John looked stunned. “How…?” He shook his head, trying not to forget the training he had been put through in the early days of his slavery. “Never mind. But why? I’m struggling to keep up with you.”

“I intend to cure you of your limp,” Sherlock informed the male.

 _“Cure_ me?”

“Yes. By tomorrow.”

Absolutely dumbstruck, John stood there and simply looked at the pale man that had become his master within a half an hour of first glancing at him.

“I know you how questions,” Sherlock said. “I am not opposed to hearing them. But let’s get home first. Come along, Lestrade’s called a cab.”

John nodded, showing a display of obedience as he walked out of the door Sherlock was holding open for him, spotting the yellow taxi that had Lestrade waiting in the backseat. John wanted to beat Sherlock to it in order to open the door for him, but Sherlock walked right by him without any concern for his limp or speed.  Fixing his overcoat, Sherlock got inside, and John followed after, shutting the door.

The cab drove them into the heart of London, dropping Lestrade off first.

“Tell the wife I said hello,” Sherlock said in parting.

“Will do,” Lestrade said as he slid off the seat.

“Is she still cheating on you?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Piss off.” The door was closed—rather, slammed—and the cabbie was off. John looked at the tall buildings, the bustling people. He felt alive again, no longer belonging to the slave company. There was a renewed, restored energy that he had. It felt refreshing.

The cabbie turned on Baker Street, and slowed to a stop outside a residential area beside a convenience store.  Sherlock paid the cab fare and the pair exited, John limping after his master. He shivered from the cold, although he was thankful for the pants he had been given.

They entered the building and Sherlock showed them to his flat—well, it was, technically, John’s flat now, as well. By relation. John’s Master’s flat. 221 B.

It looked like a tornado had hit the place. There were books everywhere—literally everywhere. Papers were scattered all over the place. There seemed to be some sort of chemistry set in the kitchen. John looked around, spotting something strange sitting on the mantel above the fireplace. Was that a _skull?_

“Have a seat, John,” Sherlock said as he unravelled his scarf from around his neck. John silently began to crouch, taking his place on the floor. Sherlock shook his head. “No, no—the sofa will do until your leg is better.”

John glanced up at Sherlock, catching himself before his rump touched the ground. He sat down on the sofa blinking. “You seem to know a lot about my leg. Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m just not an idiot.”

“Right.”

Sherlock stood before John, pacing the floor before the sofa. “I have no complaints about you speaking your mind and asking your questions. I only ask that, when we are in the public eye, you obey my order and follow the typical guidelines for one in your position.”

“Care what people think, do you?” John asked.

“Hardly. But my brother, however, does. He’s one of the main reasons you are here.”

John arched a brow and shifted uncomfortably at a sudden thought. “Am I for your brother?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock seemed almost insulted. “But he thought that owning a slave would somehow make me more responsible. But the real reason I wanted you specifically, John, is because of your leg. I need you for an experiment.” 

John was about to speak, but Sherlock wasn’t done. “Judging by the wound on your shoulder, you were injured about five years ago. Clearly a bullet wound. However, you show no signs of discomfort or pain in your shoulder, you simply have a limp, which suggests that there was another cause of injury in your leg. Multiple wounds for a slave, you were obviously a Fighter—a good one at that. You had been trained and at it for years. The scar at the back of your neck is old and faded—much more so than the one on your shoulder. “

Sherlock looked at the brown, aged skin for a moment. “The scar is very clean, showing no signs of struggle—you allowed the microchip to be planted, born into slavery or sold at such a young age you were probably brainwashed at that point. Your last master did not have an emotional attachment to you and sold you off as soon as you got your limp. He wasn’t physically abusive, judging from the lack of bodily scars. Your first or second owner, however, was. You have small scar lines along your back. Faded very old but still visible. A whip. Your last master didn’t beat you, although he used the collar and wasn’t afraid to rough you up a bit. You weren’t a fan of his, but you listened to him. You were loyal. You were, however, unable to fully recover from your last match when you were badly injured and your master no longer had any use for you. You were sold from slave company to slave company for two years until I happened to pick you up this morning and told you that your limp was psychosomatic, and here we are.”

John felt his mouth go dry. “You read my file that quickly?”

“Nope. Only thing I’ve looked at is your name.”

John seemed bothered, invaded. He hadn’t read his papers? First of all, that wasn’t a good sign, because if meant Sherlock wasn’t fully aware of what he’d gotten himself into when he’d purchased John. Which meant he’d be more likely to sell him off. But John didn’t want to get pessimistic. He’d just arrived at the flat. “Then how…all that? Just from my scars?”

“And lack of thereof,” Sherlock clarified. He turned his back to John, looking at the wall with his hands behind his back. “I simply observed you, John.”

John leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock turned quickly, brows arched in an interested sort of confusion. “Brilliant?”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir—Master,” John immediately corrected himself, to which Sherlock gave an approving nod. “In the car, with Mr. Lestrade and his wife...” Had Sherlock been able to deduce an affair from only seeing his colleague? He made a face. “Sorry, but, what exactly do you do, Master?” Suddenly, John had the feeling that Sherlock wasn’t an ordinary type of guy.

“I observe, John,” Sherlock stated simply, “what others do not. For instance, you weren’t given a proper shower, but you were washed down with a hose. Cold water, about twenty-six seconds.”

John just stared in disbelief, which seemed to be the reaction Sherlock had been anticipating. “Go clean yourself up properly. The bathroom is down the hall.”

The slave swallowed, trying to judge Sherlock. Usually, he was decent at figuring out what to expect, what was expected of him. But Sherlock…he was at a loss. “You said I could ask you some questions, Master,” John reminded. “Is now a good time?”

Sherlock looked mildly amused. “You’re going to ask why, out of all the slaves in that place, I chose you. I’ve already answered your question when I said your leg is the reason. I do need you for an experiment. You’re going to then ask what sort of experiment, and I won’t be able to inform you of its nature as you being aware of it would jeopardize the data.”

John nodded. “Those were two of the questions, yeah,” he admitted, though it didn’t seem to be stalled by Sherlock’s uncanny deductions. “But I was also going to ask why you’re not acting like my master.”

Sherlock gave him a look, and John clarified: “I mean, usually first-time owners are a bit more...strict? Not that I’m complaining or anything. I just find it odd.”

“I have no reason to be strict with you,” Sherlock said simply. “Should you give me cause to, I will. Now, go take a proper shower.”

That was all John needed—one perfectly-worded order, and he was off the sofa and limping his way down the hall to the bathroom. The cold tile felt good on his feet, and he started the hot water. He made a face as he realized he didn’t have anything fresh to change into after he rinsed off. He felt like he’d already tested the waters a bit too much, though. Asking Sherlock for a cane, then the questioning his methods of slave treatment and ownership...he’d hold his tongue and suffer through the cotton trousers.

He smiled and stepped into the steamy stall, letting the warm water hit his body, just wash over him. John let out a sigh, smiling and leaning against the wall. God, this was great. Absolutely wonderful. He felt the grime and dirt wash away, cleansed of the warehouse and his tiny cage, of the slave company, of his old masters. At least…for now. He'd always remember. A million showers couldn't make him forget.  
  
John washed his hair with some shampoo, scrubbing at his scalp furiously. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really been able to wash his hair. And conditioner. God, it was like a holiday. John applied the product to his hair, using everything Sherlock had—the soap, the body wash, then the shower gel. He hadn’t been given specific instructions on how to bathe himself. Might as well go to town.

 

* * *

 

 

Dried off and dressed once more in the cotton trousers, John walked out of the bathroom and back down the hallway. His master was lying on his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling with his fingers bridged, resting on his abdomen.

John felt like he was somehow intruding. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, Master? What are you doing, exactly?”

“Thinking.”

John nodded as if it made perfect sense. “Ah, right. Can I, uh, get you anything? Tea or…something to eat?” Sherlock turned his head to look at the other curiously, and John simply shrugged. “I am a slave, after all.”

“Yes…used for domestic chores ever since you acquired your limp.” Sherlock turned his head so he was looking at the ceiling once more. “Cup of tea, two sugars. Make one for yourself if you’d like.”

John wordlessly went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He returned with two cups of tea resting atop two saucers. “Yours, Master,” John said, waiting for Sherlock to swing his legs around and sit upright. Sherlock took his beverage without a thank you.

“You can join me on the sofa,” Sherlock insisted, and only then did John sit down.

“Care for some telly?” Sherlock asked conversationally. His tone put John off-guard. He didn’t know how to manage this one. He had been out of the slave game for some time, just wasting away in that box and having people look at him. He had been expecting a strict master with set rules, one that would be able to remind him of his place. But Sherlock didn’t provide that training refresher course.

Using the remote, Sherlock flipped the channels until a Fight Ball broadcast came on the screen. It was a larger match—televised with twelve Fighters on each team. The score limit increased to seven. The Fighters wore nice uniforms—jerseys, with cleats and the like. These Fighters were professional grade. They were famous, and their masters were very rich off of their victories. John had been good, back in his day. But he had never been that good.

There was an instant-replay of one of the Fighters’ deaths. A young man in good physical shape was beaten to death with a baton. It was played in slow-motion, just for effect, with nothing censored. Fight Ball left nothing to the imagination.

Death in the ring at this level of performance was much more rare, and the game focus shifted from violence to physical sport. The weapons that entered the ring were hardly ever firearms. These slaves were expensive, and killing them would make the masters pull out of the game. No masters meant no Fighters, and no Fighters meant no game.  

John found himself looking away, and Sherlock handed him his cup of tea. It was still full. John looked puzzled. “Is it too sweet?” he asked.

“No, I just don’t want it anymore.”

John sighed and put his saucer down, taking Sherlock’s and limping over to the kitchen to wash the cup out. When he returned, Sherlock had changed the channel to some mindless reality program. But it seemed he didn’t want to watch, as he got up off the sofa.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. “You don’t want to know who the father is?”

“A bit obvious,” Sherlock said, to which John had no reply. Obvious? How was it obvious? If it was obvious, they wouldn’t have whole shows about it.

There was a slight knock at the door, and John automatically stood to answer it. But an older woman entered, her hair short and light. “Sherlock, your brother is here.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not here.”

“He’s too persistent for that—oh, hello,” the woman said upon seeing John. “I didn’t realize you were the slave-holding type, Sherlock.”

John frowned. He supposed his lack of proper clothing did make it rather obvious.

“I’m not.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson, John. John, this is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson.”

John bowed his head politely. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”

“He’s a good one,” Mrs. Hudson smiled, heading for the door once more. “I’m going to send him up, Sherlock. Fair warning!”

John looked to Sherlock as the male picked up a violin, beginning to play while looking out the window. John stood there, at a loss over what to do. Sherlock hadn’t given him any orders. He turned his head, hearing heavy footsteps up the stairs.

Sherlock’s brother wasn’t anything like John had expected him to be. He was a bit more polished, and seemed far too uppity to be related to the man with the dark hair playing the violin. John was silent as Mycroft ignored him, standing in the threshold of the flat. “For once, brother, it seems you have taken my advice.”

Sherlock held the bow in his hand as he brought it to his side. “I didn’t take your advice, Mycroft. I wanted John. It was simply a coincidence you had suggested the idea of purchasing a slave.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, turning to look at John. John had never felt he’d been scrutinized so quickly before.

“Rather old, isn’t he?”

“Cheap.”

Mycroft nodded. “What about the limp?”

John blinked. He hadn’t even walked in front of the man yet—how did he know he had a limp? The same way Sherlock knew everything else? “Excuse me, sir,” John interrupted. “May I take your coat?”

“Speaking without being spoken to,” Mycroft observed. “Points deducted.”

“I just brought him home,” Sherlock pointed out. “You didn’t even give me a chance to break him in yet. And since when do I need your approval for anything? I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’ve come over without being invited and interrupted my afternoon. Points deducted.”

Sherlock brought the violin back up to his chin and began playing once more. John blinked, watching his master blatantly ignore his brother’s presence. John looked to Mycroft, confused and a bit scared that he had somehow managed to do something wrong in the midst of their bickering.

Mycroft smiled at John, heading toward the door. “I’ll be coming over again soon. Just to check in and make sure everything is going smoothly.”

John nodded. “Yes, sir. I don’t mean to pry and I know I have no right to ask, but…is everything okay? He seems a little…off. Being his brother and all, I thought—”

“You’re right,” Mycroft interjected. “You have no right to ask.”

John adverted his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“While you’re here, maybe you can tidy up the place.” Mycroft gave a false, conceited smile to John. The man seemed pompous, and reminded John of a past owner he’d once punched in the face. Just once. That was one of the only black marks on his record. He waited until Mycroft left the flat, closing the door behind him, before he sat down on the sofa again. Sherlock stopped playing.

“Don’t mind him,” Sherlock assured. “He’s just trying to figure out a way to assert his authority over you, even though you’re _my_ slave.”

“He did it with you, too,” John pointed out.

“He does it with everybody. It’s quite irritating, actually.” Sherlock and John shared a grin. “Hungry?”

“Starved,” John said.

“Good. Let’s grab a bite to eat. Go into my bedroom and find something that fits. I have an old green button down in the left side of my closet that should fit you. I’ll order you some clothes online tomorrow. Or, better yet, I’ll have Mrs. Hudson run out.”

“You don’t know my size,” John said.

Sherlock snorted. “It’s not hard to guess.”

Ah, right. John had forgotten his owner’s keen eye . He ventured into Sherlock’s bedroom, a little afraid of what he would find in there. But it was surprisingly…normal. The cotton pants were exchanged with a pair of jeans and a button down. Tucked in, it looked like it fit. He borrowed a pair of shoes as well—he needed to cram his foot in, but it did the trick.

He came back out and Sherlock nodded his approval. “Good, good. I do hope you like Italian."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting this next chapter! I thought I would have a relaxing break between semesters. Oh, how I was wrong.

The little chime at the door signalled John and Sherlock’s arrival out of the cold and into the small restaurant. Sherlock turned to John and opened the first two buttons and flattening the collar of his shirt, making the leather band around his neck more visible. John scoffed at the gesture. He supposed that making his collar stand out would make things easier for Sherlock, but there was something about having it shown off or on display. John hadn’t cared when it was his body exposed and vulnerable in the public’s eyes. He could handle that. But the collar? It was symbolic of his enslavement and subservient position in society. He didn’t need to be reminded of it by every patron in Angelo’s.

The owner spotted Sherlock waiting to be seated and rushed to the door, giving the man a hug that Sherlock awkwardly did not return. John watched with mild curiosity. “Any table, Sherlock. Whatever you and your—” one glance, that was all it took. John felt the band constrict around his neck, making it hard to swallow. “—slave want, on the house, my friend, as always.”

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock said evenly, picking a table against the wall. The bistro was dimly lit and smelled of the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. John stood at the table as Sherlock sat, biting his lip. There was a pause, and finally John made a drawn-out “um” sound.  

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyebrows arched. “Problem?”

“Am I allowed to sit in a chair?” He felt stupid asking, standing there in wait of an answer.

“Hm. You are well trained, aren’t you?” Sherlock mused with a slight chuckle that roused an urge inside of the slave to punch his new owner in the face. “This place is a bit scarce on space.” There wasn’t any room for John to sit comfortably and out of anyone’s way. “Chair for now. Don’t make me change my mind.”

John’s rear hit the wood, nodding his head to the other as the pair of them were given their menus. “I assume you can read?” Sherlock asked.

John felt insulted. “Of course I can read.”

“Not every slave can,” Sherlock pointed out. “Be thankful that you were allowed to learn and drop your attitude.”

It was the truth, as much as it scorned John to admit it. Having an education, as limited as it was, increased the price of a slave, as well as their usefulness and desirability. “Yes, _Master,”_ John said, the last word dripping with sarcasm.

Sherlock smirked. “That’s more like it,” he said just as sarcastically and even a bit playfully. John met Sherlock’s eyes, and the two allowed a small, short-lived laugh.  But Sherlock suddenly clammed up, and John made a face before going to stare down at the menu.

Sherlock ordered a water for the two of them—probably to keep the bill down—and they both ordered their dinners. As the waiter left, Sherlock sat back and just watched him. His eyes were roaming, scanning, scrutinizing every physical detail about John, which made the male feel more vulnerable than he ever had sitting nude in his glass cage. “Have you ever fought in a championship, John?”

“No, sir. Just some local matches.” Feeling the need to compensate, he added, “but I won a bunch of them.”

“How quaint,” Sherlock chastised. “I’m not interested in local matches, John. I’m thinking bigger. Much bigger.”

John grunted. “Bigger?” he asked. “Master, the slaves in the national games are young and in their prime.”

“And you’re not?” Sherlock questioned him.

“God no.”

Sherlock nodded his head, licking his lips before he folded over the page of the menu. “You will be. You’ve been out of practice, rotting away with that trade company.”

“Master, no offense,” John spoke up, “but I was discounted because I’m not a good fighter anymore.”

“And you couldn’t be sold as a domestic slave because of physical scarring and age,” Sherlock added. “I know how this works, John. I may not be an experienced slave owner, but I do not need you to hold my hand through the process.”

A waiter came to the table, offering two glasses of water, which Sherlock deemed acceptable to feed his slave. He handed the menus over, not allowing John the ability to order for himself. The waiter had not assumed this would be the case, either. Sherlock had never noticed the public expectations of slaves until now, coming into the ownership of John.

John had kept his head and eyes lowered while the waiter was present, but the moment that male was gone he was sitting upright once more. Sherlock was looking at him all the while, and John shifted in his seat.

“You have domestic slave training,” Sherlock stated.

John blinked. “Why does that make any difference?”

“It doesn’t,” Sherlock assured. “You’ve simply got quite a diverse resume. I’m sure the fact that you’re a fighter marred your chances at finding a happy owner interested in your domestic qualities. Violence, the ability to make a weapon out of almost anything.”

John sighed. He had had just about enough of Sherlock picking at his past. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’ve gone unwanted as a slave for a while, Master.”

Sherlock sat upright, smirking. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes. Good. Because I want you to realise that this may be one of your last chances, John. I need you on board. I need you at your best. If I am going to train you, you are going to need to want to be trained. Do you understand?”

John did understand—some of it. But there were some things he did not. “But why get me? Why not buy a younger fighter?”

Sherlock deemed to debate a few options in his head before he spoke. “In truth, you were all I could afford. There were some other slaves within my price range, but you were the most...promising.”

“King of the stupids, basically,” John smirked.

Sherlock allowed himself an amused grin. “Basically.”

They leaned back as their meals were served, John noticing how Sherlock did not eat much on his plate. John, however, was hungry, and didn’t let Sherlock spoil his own appetite. They ate in silence, Sherlock’s phone ringing the first interruption John had from his meal. He didn’t ask who it was, as that was not his place. But he was curious of the company his master kept.

“Ah, good. They’re ready,” Sherlock said.

“Who?”

“Come on, John,” he said, getting to his feet. “We need to go.”

“But I’m not finished.”

Sherlock paused, and John sighed, holding up his hands in a placating gesture in admittance that he knew he had been wrong to object. Sherlock attached the leash to the collar, left cash on the table, and led John outside to the curb where they hailed a cab.

 

* * *

 

John ducked his head as he exited the cab, a look of confusion on his face. “Scotland Yard?” he asked.

“Yes. Someone owes me a favour,” Sherlock said simply. He looked at the exterior of the building or a moment, but that was all he needed. “Now, come along.” He tugged on the leash as he walked, John following in suit.

John kept his head low, his eyes even lower, as he was led through the building. After getting off the elevator, he took in a large, busy office space filled with desks and cubicles. But Sherlock didn’t stop at one of those. He went into an office, without knocking, and John recognized the man sitting behind the desk.

It was the man that had accompanied Sherlock the day he’d been purchased. The one who had tried to talk him out of it.

“Sherlock,” Greg said with a soft grin. He glanced to John, but barely even acknowledged his presence. “The defective fighter any use to you?”

“We’re about to find out,” Sherlock smirked. “I need the access card.”

Greg nodded, snapping his fingers. Out from the large attached room came a young, dark-skinned woman with curly brown hair. She was dressed fairly nice, and John had to do a double-take at the collar around her neck.

A slave? She was a slave? John had heard of slaves used in professions, skilled in certain areas. But he’d never seen one up close. She had an air of superiority about her that he already didn’t like. “Yes, Master Lestrade?” she asked.

“Sally, show Sherlock and his slave to the training facility. Give him the access card once you’ve escorted him.”

“Certainly,” she said with a bow of her head. She smiled to Sherlock, eyes going past John. While John had accepted this from the free humans, he felt angered when Sally, a fellow slave, was so cold to him. He grumbled as he followed Sherlock, who was following Sally into the elevator and then down the hall to the training facility. Outside the double doors was a black scanner, a red light in the upper left hand corner to show it was locked. She placed her card to a scanner, the light turned green, the lock clicked open, and access was granted. She pulled one of the doors open for the pair of them.

Handing Sherlock the card, Sally smiled. “If you require anything—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interjected, taking the card from her and placing the thin piece of plastic in his pocket. “Thank you, Sally.”

He pulled John through the doorway, who was rather stunned at Sherlock’s rudeness. Sherlock, however, only seemed amused. “Don’t be upset. She hates me.”

“She was nice to you—”

“—because she has to be,” Sherlock finished for him. “But she does loathe me. Being nice to me absolutely tortures her.” He shook his head. “It’s no matter. We’re not here to discuss socialization patterns.” He gestured toward the large room Sally had entered them into, and John blinked.

Never before had he seen such an extensive facility—slaves were not given such a luxury, unless they were fighters that participated in the big, national games. Rows and rows of high-quality exercise machinery lined the middle of the carpeted room. There was a rock-wall, several bags hanging and awaiting punches. There was a matted area for yoga and Pilates, and John spotted the start of what seemed to be some sort of miniature obstacle course.

 “Why does Mister Lestrade owe you a favour?” John asked, eyes still wandering the room, before they settled on Sherlock. His questioned earned a scolding look from his master. “You’re here to train. Not to ask questions you have no right asking.” He motioned to a treadmill along the row. “Go,” he said dismissively. “Run.”

John nodded and walked toward the treadmill, hopping up onto the platform and configuring the settings. “For how long?” he asked, and slowly he began to move his legs.

 

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, and the man came to stand beside the treadmill. A pale hand adjusted the settings to his liking, ensuring his slave was training properly. “Until I tell you to stop.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sweat was making John’s shirt cling to his body, feeling sticky. He was panting hard as he hit the three-mile mark, this treadmill offering him more exercise than he had in the past year. His shirt was soaked in certain areas, showing a dark discoloration at the back, neck and underarms. 

Every once and a while he would glance to Sherlock, who was watching him run in silence. His fingers were pressed together, concentrating on something beyond John’s comprehension. There had been a point where John had asked for some water, but it was as if his request had gone unheard, and John was forced to keep running.

The only sounds were John’s heavy breathing, the sound of the machinery running as the treadmill cycled, and the steady beat of John’s feet as he ran. Finally, there was another sound—a phone running.

Sherlock answered it, his tone very sharp and even. “Is it done?” 

 _Is what done?_ John wondered, hands coming to grip the support bars at his sides. He was parched, perspiration gathering on his forehead and his face completely flushed.

“Good,” Sherlock smirked. “We’ll be there soon.” He hung up the phone and walked over the treadmill, pressing a button that decreased the pace. John was beyond thankful, feeling the muscles in his legs aching.  John began a gradual stop, allowing John’s body some time to walk off the energy at the very end before stopping the machine altogether.

“Come,” he said, walking toward the door. “My brother is coming over.”

John stood, gripping the treadmill, exhausted. “Can I have some water first?” he asked, which made Sherlock stop in his track. John watched him search in his pocket, pulling out a familiar box. Sherlock held the device up at eye level, wrist flicking to emphasis his possession of it. “John, what is this?”

“The remote,” John swallowed. He suddenly became very reserved, and needed to take a deep breath to prepare himself for what might come. There was no real way to prepare for feeling every nerve in his body ignite on sheer voltage.

“Be more specific,” Sherlock responded. “And please, address me properly.”

“The remote to my collar, _Master,”_ John corrected himself, standing up straight and moving off the treadmill, standing in the aisle before Sherlock.

“Much better, John. You would do well to remember that, and your place.” The remote went back into Sherlock’s pocket, and John’s jaw dropped a bit. “All I asked for was some water, Master! After you made me run three bloody miles.”

Sherlock paused, and John could see the way the man contemplated using the remote. John tensed up, closing his eyes and regretting his words immediately. _Here it comes,_ he thought.

But the shock never came. Instead, Sherlock kept walking, expecting John to follow. Hesitantly, John did, exiting the training facility just two steps behind his owner.  Once outside the man hailed a cab, allowing John to get in first. His state of sweatiness earned a look from the cabbie, but the slave supposed he hadn’t had that much of a choice in working out. It wasn’t as if he needed to be self-conscious.

As they reached Baker Street and headed up the stairs, Sherlock pointed to the kitchen. “Have all the water you want,” he smirked. “Then take a shower, get dressed, and meet me out here. Twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. He could do that. Heading to the kitchen and grabbing a glass from an overhead cabinet, he filled it up with cool water from the tap and went to pass Sherlock on his way to the bathroom. “Am I wearing your clothes again, Master?” he asked.

“Yes, until yours arrive. Should be a day or so.”

“You ordered my clothes?” John asked him.

“Instead of questioning, I think that deserves gratitude,” Sherlock said, his tone dangerous. John immediately nodded his head in agreement. “You’re right. Thank you. I, uh, look forward to...wearing them?”

Sherlock smirked in amusement and dismissed the other with a wave of his hand, sending John to Sherlock’s bedroom. He was sure he could find some clothes that would fit. Nothing too tight or form-fitting.

What was it about a nice, hot shower that was so cleansing? Immediately he felt relaxed and reborn, and he supposed his lack of a domestic setting for some time had created an appreciation for such trivial things. To a slave—to John, they were no longer trivial.

He emerged from the steamy bathroom with his hair wet, carrying the clothes that were drenched in sweat. He was going to place them in Sherlock’s laundry hamper, but he paused, seeing Sherlock and Mycroft seated in the sitting room. Sherlock had his violin, picking idly at the strings while Mycroft sipped a cup of tea.

“John, there you are,” Sherlock said. “Please, have a seat. You had two minutes left.”

“Suppose I’ll just have to forfeit it, then.” John moved to the armchair, placing the clothes on the floor. “Is everything all right, Master?”

“Perfectly fine, John,” Sherlock assured him. “Mycroft here has organized a match for you.”

“A match?” John blinked, taken aback by the sudden and unexpected news.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, holstering his tea cup in the saucer. “Friday.”

“Friday?!” he looked to Sherlock, horrified. “You’re going to Fight me on Friday? That’s two days from now!”

Sherlock gave him a look, and Mycroft chuckled at his outburst. “That’s what you get for buying a warehouse slave. The training is obviously there. His mouth needs a bit of work.”

“Noted,” Sherlock said dismissively, keeping his focus on the slave filled with anxiety before him. “It’s a practice match, John. No betting will be taking place. I need to see where you are and how much training we need to focus on.” He put his violin down, getting to his feet to peer out the window at Baker Street down below them.

“I’m not ready.”

Sherlock turned around, a bit surprised at John’s continued defiance. But it wasn’t that, exactly. John wasn’t disobeying Sherlock by any means. Sherlock could tell this particular outburst was rooted not in insolence, but anxiety. “This is just practice,” Sherlock reminded him.  “One of Mycroft’s colleagues owns a Fighter as well.”

“He’s a bit older,” Mycroft added, inspecting the tea cup as if he had spotted an imperfection in the crafting. “He doesn’t do any large competitions anymore.”

“Anymore?” John pressed further.

“He used to compete nationally,” Mycroft said. “Now he’s retired. His master Fights him recreationally so he doesn’t lose his touch.”

John ran a hand through his hair, taking in a large breath and then letting it out without much grace. “A national Fighter. My first match since I got out of the warehouse, and you’re putting me up against a national Fighter?”

“A _retired_ national Fighter,” Sherlock said, receiving a chuckle from his brother.

“You’re setting me up to fail.” John’s words sounded so final and hopeless, looking at his master with unblinking eyes.

“You should trust in your master, John,” Mycroft said as he placed the cup and saucer on the side table for the slave to clean up later. He fixed his suit and gave John a knowing look. “I’ll be in touch, Sherlock,” he said in fleeting. Sherlock, however, said nothing as the man left the flat, shutting the door behind him. He sat there, staring at John, as if trying to answer a question without asking the slave.

John shifted in his seat, and finally Sherlock posed the question. “Why do you assume you will lose?”

The answer was simple, in John’s mind, pooling in self-doubt. “He’s better than me.”

“How so?”

“More experienced,” John listed off. “Better skilled. Probably better trained.” He gave a look to Sherlock to ensure the man knew he was not speaking of him. “He’s competed nationally.”

“That’s nothing to do with him,” Sherlock argued. "If you had been purchased by a wealthy bettor, you too could easily have been in a national Fight. That part is the luck of who purchases you.”

“And you think I’m lucky now?” John asked with a smart little grin, brows arched as he looked over at his owner.

Sherlock smirked at that, allowing the other his comment. Despite slave training standards telling him not to encourage such behaviour, Sherlock seemed to enjoy John’s commentaries sometimes. “We’ll find out on Friday, now won’t we?”

 


End file.
